Then his shoulders lifted from their slump and his eyes met mine. I assured him that I didn’t hate him, but that I hated the industries that placed him - and all of us - in the same trick bag. He regaled me with a laundry list of environmental mistakes from just that day: He’d ordered lunch and it came in plastic containers he’d eaten meat and he was about to order it again he’d even taken a cab to this very party. “You’re gonna hate me …” he mutters sheepishly, his voice barely audible over the clanging silverware. I introduce myself to the man to my left, tell him that I work in the environmental field, and his face freezes in terror. I’m at my friend’s birthday dinner when an all-too-familiar conversation unfolds.
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